


bright eyes and old bones

by fruitlouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:33:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitlouis/pseuds/fruitlouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is so much easier as a naive child, and both Harry and Louis know this. The first taste of problems and opinions begin to appear around age twelve, even though they were over trivial matters such as a pair of pants or a football game. Age eighteen provides a terrifying glimpse of the real world and its monsters, but age twenty-two makes all the hardships worthwhile. Twenty-six solidifies everything Harry's ever loved and wanted, and he feels like a fat old cat lying in the sun- happy and carefree. New responsibilities that shrieked throughout the night and demanded bedtime stories came at age thirty-three, but Harry loved them anyway. Forty-five was excruciatingly hard and massive amounts of tears were shed, although all breakdowns were carefully hidden. Age sixty was nostalgic and filled with contentment, complete with mugs of hot cocoa. Seventy-four made Harry want to beat down stone walls and sob, begging for his lost companion to come home, even though it was impossible.  Harry's last New Year's Eve came at age seventy-five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bright eyes and old bones

Eight year old Harry sat impatiently on the window seat, his cherubic features smushed impossibly close to the frigid window pane, and his hot-cocoa scented breath leaving puffs of moisture behind. Massive swaths of snow lay on the ground, blanketing the world in a tranquil white. Thick scarves of snow and ice lined the branches, their burdening weight bending even the largest of branches downward. Harry’s bright eyes had remained glued to the winding front walkway all morning, anxiously counting down the seemingly endless minutes until ten year old Louis and his four sisters would stumble up the sleet covered path, their noses pink and cheeks frozen. 

The moment a mass of blonde and brunette hair followed by an exasperated mother turned the corner, Harry leapt from his perch with an excited cry. Louis was finally here, meaning that the annual New Year’s festivities could begin. Bounding down the carpeted stairs, Harry skittered to a hasty stop directly in front of the door, a grin cracking his chubby face in two, just as the doorbell chimed. Reaching for the doorknob with one small, pudgy hand, a devious plan wormed its way into his childish brain. Quickly, Harry retracted his hand and turned to peer out the windows instead, only for his gaze to be met with startlingly shiny pair of cobalt eyes, their edges crinkled up with mischief and a smile. 

Bursting with eagerness, Louis waved through the glass while repeatedly punching the doorbell with one finger. “Let me in Harry, c’mon. We can play!”

At this, Harry shook his head, the tightly-wound curls bouncing. “Nu-uh Lou. You have to make me.”

“Oh please please please Harry,” Louis begged, for the cold was beginning to freeze his impish nose. “I’ll let you eat all my chocolate malt balls if you do.” (even though those were Louis’ favorite sweet) Harry loved malt balls, especially chocolate, and Louis knew this and fully intended to use this fact to his advantage. 

Attempting to conceal his newfound excitement, Harry calmly twisted the tarnished doorknob, opening the door a tiny crack. Not a second later, Harry found himself lying flat on his back on the hardwood floors, the entire Tomlinson family sprawled on top of him. Louis was pressed up against his chest, panting like a small puppy with a cold pink nose. With his nubby flannel was buttoned all wrong and his hat was terribly askew, Louis looked a right mess, but none of that stopped the surge of happiness that coursed through Harry’s veins. Louis was really, truly, here. 

Peering through a pair of spider-like eyelashes faintly sprinkled with snow, Louis whispered shyly to Harry, his breath tickling the younger lad’s neck. “Hi.”

“Hi Lou. Happy New Year.”

And with that, a warm pair of slightly chapped lips was pressed to Harry’s left cheek, causing sparks to zing across his flesh and butterflies to race in his belly. Slowly, the lips pulled away, leaving a slobbery trail behind. They parted with a soft pop, opening to form words. 

“Happy New Year to you too, Hazza.”

 

Harry was twelve and Louis was fourteen, and things were very, very different. Harry was soft lines and plump pink cheeks, his head crowned with a mop of unruly ringlets. Louis was razor-like cheekbones and skinny legs, his quick wit taunting those who displeased him. Harry was one of those people. Everything the younger boy did seemed to be an annoyance to Louis, as if he was a constant, clingy nuisance. To be fair, Harry did cling to Louis like he was an old, tattered teddy bear that couldn’t be parted with, but that was only in fear of losing him to the terrifying teenage world. 

Their relationship was one of what their mothers called “tough love,” in order to appease Harry’s frantic and desperate thoughts that Louis hated him. In all truth, there were somedays when all Louis wanted was for Harry to go away and leave him alone. But turning down the pair of bright green eyes that always appeared so full of hope would be like beating a puppy, and that was something Louis could not do. However, Louis’ mates found countless amounts of amusement in Harry, and often invited the younger boy to tag along. Today was one of those days.

It was ideal weather for any outdoor activity a teenage boy could dream up, with the sun eliciting warm rays that spread over the snow. Two pristine white footie goals stood proudly at the edges of Louis’ lawn, their nets yearning for the black and white balls that would soon be punted into their grasp. Looking every inch the bossy teenager he was, Louis strode outside, a new ball tucked possessively under his scrawny arm. His hair tucked under a beanie and official looking cleats on his feet, Louis dictated who would play on which team, noticeably separating himself and Harry. 

The game began without a hitch, with the ball seeming to change possession more rapidly than the speed of light. After many goals and celebrations, the game was locked in a tie. Louis seemed to grow more desperate by the second, willing to sacrifice anything to defeat his opponents. All of the sudden, Harry, sweet oafish Harry, had control over the coveted ball, and Louis saw his opening. Rushing toward the younger boy, Louis violently shoved his shoulder into the Harry’s back, knocking him off balance. 

With a startled cry, Harry fell face-first onto the muddy, frozen ground, his arm crunching beneath him. Not a second after his slightly chubby body hit, Louis was filled with remorse and sprinted inside while screeching for his mother to call the ambulance, as Harry had somehow “tripped” and wasn’t getting up. His face a ghostly color of white and a sheen sweat on his forehead, Harry attempted to show Louis that he was wrong, and that he was getting up just fine. However, before his legs could straighten beneath his torso, Harry felt his knees give out and was greeted with a face-full of snow once more. 

Waking up in a stark white hospital bed with an IV dripping into your arm was not the best way to spend New Year’s Eve, Harry concluded. He sat up, taking notice of the clunky navy cast that was now wrapped around his left arm, inhibiting his movement. Taking a quick scan of the room, Harry noticed that he was alone, and stretched for the remote. After mindlessly flipping through dozens of infomercials and soap operas, Harry sighed, clicked off the television, and let drowsiness take over. 

When Louis entered the bland hospital room, it was quiet except for Harry’s faint snores. A bouquet of wilted flowers in his sweaty hand and a box of chocolates in the other, Louis sank onto the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping boy. Without pausing to think, Louis bent over, his sweaty fringe falling into his face, and timidly pressed a kiss to Harry’s temple. 

“M sorry Hazza, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. Honest.”

And quietly, only for himself to hear, Louis mumbled the words Harry was dying to hear. “I miss the way we were.”

 

Eighteen year old Harry found himself at the apex of a whirlwind of fame, caught up in shiny new prospects and seven-figured checks. As it turned out, being a part of a wildly successful boyband substantially boosted your popularity, as Harry discovered while making idle conversation with a fake-looking brunette stuffed into a skintight dress at the most prestigious party of the year. Anyone who was someone in the celebrity world was in attendance, sipping on slender glasses of champagne as a multitude of hors d’oeuvres were passed around on silver platters. This year, it seemed that One Direction had scored an invite. 

After placing third on X Factor, which had been a wild experience in itself, the five boys rocketed to instantaneous stardom, trusting one another to keep themselves sane. They made up a small, co-dependent family, any of the five always ready to listen to the closeted desires of another. But tonight, the other boys seemed to be missing, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts, which could be a very detrimental thing. 

A glass of wine in his large hand, Harry reclined against the wooden bar, letting his eyes skim over each of the party guests as he delved deeper into his own thoughts. There was Nick Grimshaw, talking animatedly with Matt and Olly, identical smirks on each of their faces as Nick gestured obscenely with his hands. There was that American pop artist, the one with a mane of curly blonde hair that he always forgot the name of. And then there was Louis, tucked away in a corner nursing his own glass, most likely doing the same thing as Harry. 

Louis, with his constantly messy fringe and sparkling, mischievous eyes. Louis, with his incredibly stinky feet and delicate bones. Louis, the boy that had gradually stolen pieces of Harry’s heart, something that had remained undetected to either until this night, New Year’s Eve. Harry found himself staring at Louis, unable to rip his gaze off the other boy’s tailored suit and gelled hair. Thoughts that should not be occurring anytime, much less now, suddenly flooded Harry’s brain, causing a one word mantra to repeat. LouisLouisLouis it sang, the beat thrumming in Harry’s veins. LouisLouisLouis it cried, branding itself on Harry’s heart like a tattoo.  
And all of the sudden, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. Pure want bubbled inside his chest as he surged for Louis, ready to push aside his previous fears. This was his life, and he was going to do whatever the fuck made him happy. Harry’s large hands braced themselves on either side of the smaller boy’s head, causing their eyes to lock.

“I’m going to kiss you now, alright?”

In response, Louis made a muffled gurgling sound in the back of his throat, not understanding the situation.

But Harry honestly didn’t give a damn. Forcing his plump lips over Louis’, Harry greedily nipped at the other boy’s mouth, barely resisting the voice that encouraged him to pull Louis by one arm up the stairs and into a bedroom. He kept at this for a moment longer, immediately halting when he realized that Louis was frozen beneath him. Suddenly ashamed, Harry detached his lips and turned to run, but was stopped by a sharp tug on his wrist. Whirling around while trying to hide his flushed cheeks, Harry turned to face Louis, one eyebrow cocked in question. 

“Do that again,” Louis growled.

Before his swollen lips could form words, however, Harry found himself smothered with a mouth that tasted like bitter vodka and chocolate, but still oh-so Louis. Louis pushed himself against Harry until there was no space left between them, torsos slipping on each other’s clothes as he gripped Harry’s hair, swallowing his mouth roughly, teeth scraping against his lips. It took a second, only a second, for Harry to respond, frantically licking his way into Louis’ mouth wherever his tongue found an opening, battling the other boy for control of the kiss; while constantly kissing Louis back like it was all he knew how to do. Both boys burned, love searing their insides and spreading to warm their skin, especially where they touched. Louis gripped Harry even tighter, kissing him fervently until they separated to breathe. He gently broke their mouths apart without extending the distance between their bodies, still clutching Harry. They swayed together, catching their breath, eyes locked on each other. Louis leaned back in again, connecting their lips softly before moving his mouth to Harry’s jaw, his throat, his cheek. Listening, Louis heard Harry whimper softly as he languidly traced his tongue along the spot right below the writhing boy’s ear. 

“Let’s get out of here, yeah?” 

Nodding in agreement, Harry followed Louis outside the thumping complex and into the car, anxious to be alone. They rode to their flat in a comfortable silence, the kind that wraps you up like a blanket while warming your insides. The night shrouding their figures, both boys waited impatiently as Louis fumbled with the lock, his senses still a bit fried from their prior kiss. With a small click, the door is unlocked and they’re tumbling into the flat, a knot of grabby hands and pleading noises.  
And all of the sudden they’re kissing again, lips glued together as they stumble up the stairs and into a bedroom, falling backward onto the plush bed. They both jump when the sharp ringing sound of Louis’ mobile buzzes from his pocket. Groaning, Louis moved to switch it off, Harry’s hands still twisted in his shirt as he gently shoved Louis away. “Lou..”

“No,” Louis rasped against his ear, “Don’t leave.”

“But I can’t stay, we can’t-“

“No,” Louis growled, more forceful this time, Harry’s face locked between his hands. “No. You aren’t leaving. I feel something, and you do too, I can sense it.”  
Harry exhaled shakily, his teeth chewing his lip with his eyes screwed shut. “Yeah- I guess I do, but I don’t want to mess everything up. I don’t want us to try this, whatever this is, and it not work out then us both hate each other. I don’t want us to grow apart and not be able to stand the sight of each other. I don’t want to freak the other boys out. I don’t want-”

Louis cut off Harry’s rambling with a gentle kiss, pushing all the negative thoughts away. 

“We won’t, Harry. Everything will be fine, I promise. It will work out, and we both know this. Our friendship isn’t typical; the hugs are much too long to be platonic anyway. And the boys won’t give a damn, we’re still the same people. Harry and Louis. Except we’ll be Harry and Louis, the two boys who finally got their shit together and became boyfriends. They’ve known for ages Harry, and I think we have too. We’re made for each other, just like toothpaste and a toothbrush.”

Harry snorted at Louis, a smirk of amusement on his face. “Really Lou? A toothpaste and toothbrush?”

Louis quietly harrumphed, muttering that it was the best his tired mind could do. In response, Harry tugged the older boy closer, pressing up against his knobby spine. 

“I love you Haz,” Louis mumbled, almost in a state of delirium as he straddled both sleep and reality. 

“I love you too.”

As he lay awake in bed not quite ready to leave the events of the night behind, Harry decided that whatever it took, he would show Louis that this could work. Kissing Louis was like breathing, and without oxygen one would die. Harry needed Louis to survive; he was his other half. The lock to his key. The bandaid to his papercut. The Louis to his Harry. 

 

A twenty-two year old openly gay Harry sat in an uncomfortable folding chair, hand in hand with Louis, his boyfriend of four years. One Direction’s popularity had faded, the band breaking into four separate pieces. Everyone went their own way, except for Louis and Harry who stayed glued to each other’s sides constantly. All five members still remained close friends, however, and met up often for dinner or tea. But tonight focused on another band, one that Louis and Harry had long idolized. Tonight, the two boyfriends were attending yet another concert for The Fray, except this time they came together. 

They sat impatiently in their god-awful chairs, their knees bouncing rapidly to an identical pace and a countdown timer set on Harry’s watch. The last five minutes passed as if the world was moving through honey, time slowing to a near stop. Then suddenly the lights switched off, plunging the venue into a sea of darkness. The ebony blackness lasted for a moment, only a moment, before four figures appeared on the stage to the deafening screams of the audience. Three notes were played timidly on the piano, only warning the fans of what was to come. An explosion of light dazzled the crowd’s eyes before the lead singer crooned the first few lyrics of Over My Head into the microphone, causing everyone to shriek and sway to the music.

The music that had unknowingly brought Harry and Louis together so many years earlier, the music that bled into their souls as they held their hands high and screamed out the lyrics they knew oh-so well. The music that they both hummed as they washed one another’s hair in the shower, the music that constantly played in their lives and would bind them together forever. Harry and Louis were the music, the faint notes burrowing deep inside their core, playing loudly for everyone to hear. But some nights, the music only played for Harry and Louis as they lay in bed with their limbs so tangled you couldn’t tell whose was whose, when they were a sticky, sweaty, breathless mess. Certain days, the music would slow to a tranquil melody, the sounds quiet and guitar strums less frequent. Other days, the music would rapidly increase in speed and volume, thrumming in the two men’s veins as if it was alive. 

The concert flew by in flashes of brilliant light and echoing sounds, the deafening roar muddling both Harry and Louis’ ears. But neither of the two could be bothered to care, their hearts and heads much too tangled in the music to even breathe. The notes twisted around their bodies, tightening into a rope of impenetrable knots. Every breath, every whisper, every kiss; they all were strung along the invisible cord, bonding Harry and Louis together. As the final notes of the last song slowly petered out, the couple found themselves wrapped up in each other, lips pushed together and tongues frantically searching for an opening, both of their hearts thumping to the litany of the other’s.

 

Harry was twenty-six and sitting tucked into a buttery leather seat on a plane back home, with his twenty-eight year old boyfriend Louis by his side. It had been an eventful year, one packed with travel and new experiences. Louis had taken it upon himself to “let out his inner child”, something Harry doubted that had ever left, and explore anywhere in the world he wanted. A constant set of suitcases remained packed with all the necessities, just in case Louis found somewhere he had to visit. Today was one of those days, Louis tearing through the hallways of their flat while exclaiming that he’d found an amazing deal on private flights to Nevis, somewhere he had apparently always wanted to go. He had been kind enough to give Harry a forty-five minute warning, which was a rare occurrence. Like always, Harry smiled and turned to grab his toiletries, chuckling silently at his childish boyfriend. They had immediately jumped into a cab and sprinted through the airport, making onto their flight with ten minutes to spare, a breathless mess of luggage and hair. 

The plane was small and luxurious, seating only fifteen people. The couple, however, were the only passengers, and Harry suspected that Louis had intentionally made it this way. He didn’t mind, the quiet atmosphere would provide for relaxation, something that was scarce. Settling back into his seat, Harry stretched out his long legs, all the while attached to Louis by their intertwined hands. The first hour of the flight flew past, the two men engrossed in some random American movie with fast cars and bright lights. However, Harry began to become restless, his head aching and feet asleep. Poking Louis in the arm, he motioned that he was going to fetch some paramectol from their bags. Louis nodded, turning back to the movie without another thought.

Rifling through the back, Harry searched for the tiny white bottle that held the medicine, groaning at what felt like hammers pounding on his skull. In the place that should have held the remedy Harry needed was a tiny black velvet box, the kind that only ever holds one thing. A ring. His cheeks flushing in happiness, Harry turned back to Louis, whose eyes had not left the screen. 

“Lou?” Harry asked, trying to restrain some of his excitement, “What’s this?”

At the sight of the box, the color left Louis’ face, leaving him stark white and open mouthed. Stuttering, he mumbled gibberish and ran his thin fingers through his fringe, biting his lip. Suddenly, the color returned to his cheeks and a cheeky grin replaced his shocked look. 

“Well, go ahead.”

“Erm Lou,” Harry mumbled, utterly confused. “You bought the ring, shouldn’t you ask?”

A broad smile cracking his face in two, Louis prompted Harry. “Ask me to ask you to marry me, you twat. Don’t be thick. Go on now, it’s not that hard.” 

With a mockingly formal tone to his voice, Harry asked Louis what would introduce the fated question. “Louis William Tomlinson, will you ask me to become your husband?”

“Of course,” Louis breathed, moving to kneel on the carpeted plane floor. “Harry, will you please marry me? I honestly don’t think I will be able to live if you say no. I physically need you. Whenever I wake up and you’re not cuddled into me, I panic. Or when you’re running late, and I worry that something awful has happened. So Harry, will you marry me? Without you in my life I’d still be searching for my perfect match, the toothbrush to my toothpaste.” 

At that, they both smiled, remembering their first night together. His eyes shining with tears of love, Harry dove in for a kiss, all the while whispering yesyesyesyes. They remained like that for a while, tucked into each other’s chests as they listened to their heartbeats, cherishing the love that made them whole. Suddenly, Harry found himself being shoved backward out of the embrace, so Louis could dig in his pocket. 

“Stick out your left hand,” Louis commanded.

Tears of pure joy threatening to spill, Harry stuck out his trembling hand, ready for the ring that would bond them together. Without another word, Louis slid the band onto Harry’s slender finger, looking lovingly into the younger man’s eyes. He broke the silence with nervous chatter, anxious to please Harry. 

“It’s just a plain band, nothing too fancy or girly. I didn’t know if you’d want diamonds or other sparkly stuff, but I reckon we can switch it out,” Louis said, twisting his fingers with anxiety. 

“Louis,” Harry said, cutting off his fiancée’s rambling. “I love it, and I love you.”

 

Thirty-three year old Harry and thirty-five year old Louis found themselves and several glasses of champagne out on the barely frosted balcony of their new flat, celebrating the end to their fifth year of marriage with chilled champagne and miniature quiches. Louis liked quiche, especially the way Harry prepared it, with small bits of bacon and mushroom strewn throughout the eggy batter. Icicles lined the windowsills, their sharp points frozen in time. There were sometimes when Harry wished he could freeze time, staying in one moment forever. Like when the sun is barely peeking through the curtains in the morning and Louis is still asleep, and the light transforms him into something otherworldly. Or when they spend a weekend holed up in their bedroom, tucked underneath mounds of blankets while movies that they’d never admit to still watching light up the television screen. Or when Louis steps out of the shower, water droplets running down his torso and shakes his hair, splattering the walls. In all honesty, Harry would be happy to freeze time as long as he was with Louis.

Tonight was one of those moments, the type he’d cherish forever in his heart as it continued to beat to the litany of LouisLouisLouis. Snowflakes dotted their eyelashes and hair, leaving small wet spots on their chilled cheeks. A family of three strolled along the sidewalk beneath them, laughing as the little girl leapt onto her father’s back for a ride. The father chuckled, ruffling his daughter’s hair as he pressed a chaste kiss to his wife’s forehead. A fond smile stretched onto Harry’s face, and an identical one wormed its way onto Louis’ as well. 

All of the sudden, the sharp pains of want and desire pierced Harry’s heart. He wanted a family of his own, one he could return home to after work and pepper with tiny kisses. He wanted to hastily pour cereal and pack lunches in the morning before school. He wanted to spend days outside in the snow, building snowmen and snowforts. He wanted to attend a high school graduation, watching proudly from the audience with tears in his eyes. Harry needed a family to love and care for, but the final verdict depended on Louis’ opinion. Louis, who had four sisters and spent one weekend every month with them, going on endless shopping sprees and campouts. Louis, who adored babies and would pinch their plump cheeks, cooing like a mother hen. 

“Hey Lou?” Harry asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Turning his head, Louis responded with a lazy “mhm?”

In an attempt to suppress his newfound nerves, Harry clamped his eyelids closed and spat out his question in one breath. “What do you think about kids? And maybe having one of our own?”

Harry waited anxiously for Louis to respond, holding his breath and gnawing on his lips. He had always wanted children of his own, but if Louis didn’t that could be okay. (Even though this would secretly break Harry’s heart) They’d maybe get a dog or cat instead, and treat it like a child. But it wouldn’t be the same, not without soiled diapers and bedtime stories or quick jaunts to the park to play on the swings.

“Well,” Louis began slowly, carefully selecting his words, “I think I’d quite like that. But could we adopt? There are thousands of kids out there with no parents, waiting for a home of their own. Everytime I imagine one of them sitting alone, wishing for a family, it tears me apart. Would that be alright Haz, adopting a little girl?”

In response, Harry flung himself at Louis, enveloping his husband into a bone-crushing hug while pressing fond kisses to his knuckles, a warm feelings spreading throughout his body. They were going to be parents, finally.

With a light laugh, Louis continued. “I take that as a yes.”

And four months later, a golden-haired two year old girl named Rosie skipped into their flat, shrieking in delight while hugging her new fathers. 

 

Harry was forty-five and he was pretty sure his mid-life crisis had arrived, hitting him head on like an eighteen-wheeler driving full speed. Louis had been diagnosed pancreatic cancer. Ever since the doctor had announced the grim news to the two men, everything had been a colorless blur, as if the sun suddenly went out while the Earth was still spinning. Cancer. Five letters that Harry decided was his least favorite word in Webster’s entire Dictionary, and he proved that by attacking its very pages upon returning home after the fated first visit. At first, they both cried. And cried. And cried. Because neither one knew what to do or how to cope, especially Harry. He couldn’t see a life without Louis, much less one that he would be proud to live. In all honesty, Harry was probably more affected than Louis by the whole situation. (This is not true, Louis likes to pretend that he’s still invincible because he knows Harry needs something to latch onto.)

Chemotherapy. Another word that was goddamn awful. The word responsible for the loss of Louis’ wonderfully floppy fringe, and the light behind his eyes. Now, Louis hid his bald head under saggy, bland beanies, ashamed of what the world might think. Harry tried his best to reassure Louis that the world won’t give a damn if he has hair or not, and pressed small butterfly kisses to the bare skin whenever it’s uncovered, which is rare because Louis gets cold easily. Blankets could be found throughout the house, some knitted and frayed with others were new with their price tags still attached. Dirty mugs with miniscule particles of tea leaves were on every flat surface, some even lining the windowsills. Louis loved the feeling of his hands wrapped around a ceramic mug, inhaling the scent of whatever tea he fancied. Harry would often join Louis, his giant hands gripping the mug’s handle while spreading a blanket over their legs, their eyes often locked on each other. 

Tonight was no different than any other, except for the catcalls echoing down the street as clocks ticked closer and closer to midnight. Louis sat on the balcony, hidden away beneath a fading blanket as Harry prepared two identical mugs of piping hot tea in the kitchen. Louis couldn’t have alcohol, it could interfere with the multiple medicines he swallowed each day. Strolling through the door, Harry presented Louis with a cookie, a grin lighting up his face. Louis feebly shook his head, pangs of guilt filling his being as the smile slipped off his husband’s face.

“I’m just not hungry Harry.”

With a somber expression, Harry gently set the plate down, his eyes downcast and eyebrows furrowed in worry.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m just being silly,” Louis cooed. “I ate a big lunch.” 

They both knew this was bullshit; Louis had barely swallowed two strawberries before vomiting, just like every other day. But Harry brushed this aside, trying to make the most of what could be their last New Year’s Eve together. He tried to keep thoughts like these locked away, hidden deep in his brain, but tonight it wasn’t working.

“What if you don’t make it to next New Year’s, Lou? What if this is our last one? What if this is the last time we sit out here like this, you shivering under that horrific blanket, me trying not to think too hard. What if we don’t get to kiss again? What if-”

Louis cut Harry off, his voice trembling slightly. “Stop acting as if I’m dying tomorrow Haz, because I can promise that I’m not. It may be next week, but not tomorrow. And this could be our last time out here, but that’s okay- and this blanket really is rather ugly,” Louis said, a light laugh tinkling in his throat.  
“And that last worry of yours we can fix right now.”

With that, Louis leaned into Harry and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips, his beanie sliding off. His mouth quirking into a sad smile, Harry returned the kiss, savoring the taste of Louis. Throughout the night, more soft open-mouthed kisses were exchanged like presents as the two men loosely held hands over the abandoned plate of cookies, their platinum wedding bands shining in the moonlight. They stayed like this until Louis dozed off, quietly snoring. Swooping his fragile husband into his arms, Harry moved inside and up the stairs, and then tucked both of their bodies under the quilts that Louis loved so dearly. 

Cancer, Harry decided while sprawled on the bed with Louis curled into his side, was something no one should ever have to experience, whether it was affecting a loved one or yourself. 

 

It’s New Year’s Eve and a sixty-year old Harry found himself surrounded by his five best mates, engulfed in a bubble of infectious laughter. Louis’ cancer is in remission, thank God, and the twinkle seemed to be returning to his tired eyes. His bones creak more, but then again everyone’s do. Harry figures that this is old age’s way of reminding you not to jump off fluffy ottomans, as Niall tried to do the same earlier in the year and ended up with a cracked hip. Zayn sports a shock of gray hair, and as does Liam, whose once brown mop was now speckled with flecks of white. Everyone harbors a set of deep wrinkles, the lines acting as a reminder for past memories. Louis gripes about his wrinkles daily, complaining that they make him look saggy and feeble. But secretly, Harry loves his wrinkles, because with each crease comes a special occasion from a past point in his life. Laugh lines crinkle around his eyes, reminding him of the long months spent on a tour bus when he was seventeen, without a care in the world. The crevices on his forehead remind Harry of all the problems he’s faced, and how he has overcome them. But most of all, the wrinkles remind him of Louis. 

It’s all incredibly cliché, with logs crackling in the hearth as fire slowly consumes them and each boy man clutching a steaming mug of cocoa, stuffed with jumbo marshmallows. The small ones are for the weak, according the Louis who is currently gulping down the scalding liquid as if he’s been told that the world will end in two minutes. He suddenly jerks back, spewing the brown drink all over the sofa, screeching that the cocoa burnt his tongue, even though he’s sixty-two and knows that it’s his own fault. Their albums play on repeat throughout the flat, allowing the past to wash over their old, tired souls. (Liam had forced them to play them, for old times’ sake, but they all secretly don’t mind). They share fond memories of their time as a band, reliving the greatest moments through each other. 

The beginning notes of their very first single trickle through the speakers, and all of the sudden everyone is up, dancing as best as their old bones would allow. They’re screeching from the top of their ragged lungs, belting out lyrics from long ago that should be forgotten, but aren’t. Five voices meld into a perfect harmony, everyone claiming their old solos and parts of the song. Liam begins, his voice smooth and unwavering, and they all join in, one by one. Niall messes up the claps like he’s still eighteen, and Zayn somehow manages to hit those impossible high notes. And then it’s Harry’s solo, with his rocky voice warming the flat and each of them, all except for Louis who sits curled in the armchair, suddenly overwhelmed by flashes of the past. Harry’s voice brings goosebumps to his arms, causing the tan hairs to stand on end.  
It’s no surprise to anyone really that after the last notes drift off back into the collection of memories that they each share, they all surge forward into a tight hug, flappy arms locking everyone in place as five sets of quiet “I love you’s” are whispered. Harry and Louis cautiously break away from the huddle, careful not to knock anyone down. Their lips meet in a tender kiss, fingers knotting in hair and promises mumbled against open mouths. 

And even though they all know that they’re aging, slowly creeping closer to the date that they will leave this world, everyone is content to stay wrapped in this moment forever, savoring each other’s friendship. 

 

A seventy-four year old Harry trudged through the park’s thick snow on his way to meet Louis, his faded rainboots squelching in mounds of slush. The occasional snowflake would drift by, latching itself onto his storm-cloud colored ringlets. It seemed as if these straggling snowflakes were choosing to stay behind, remaining aloft in the chilled air, purposefully not joining the rest of their kind in the massive snowbanks that covered the ground. Harry didn’t see the point in this. If everyone who could understand you was gone and never to return, why stay behind and wallow in misery? Why punish yourself with constant states of loneliness and longing?

Harry stopped his methodic walk in front of a weathered tree, its branches stripped bare from the unforgiving wind. With heavy bundles of snow tracing the limbs, the branches kissed the ground and the single stone beneath its canopy. His joints creaking in protest, Harry gently sat down on the damp ground, pausing a moment to listen. Nothing. Truly nothing. A pearl of impenetrable silence surrounded Harry, and for that he was grateful. This way, no one would disturb the two men as they continued their tender tradition. Twisting his fingers together, a suddenly nervous Harry became hyperaware to the snow seeping through his worn jeans, and the bitter cold biting at his nearly deaf ears. Winter had never been kind. 

Suddenly, Harry’s slightly-dulled eyes fell on Louis, and the ethereal light that seemed to be radiating off his body. With one glance, any discomfort that had previously plagued Harry vanished. He sighed loudly, sending out quick puffs of stale, coffee scented breath as his old bones settled into their assigned places.

“Louis” Harry whispered quietly, his rocky voice crackling, “Why did it have to be you?”

And with that single sentence, Harry broke, shattering into millions of minuscule fragments like fine china when it’s dropped on the hardwood floor. A waterfall of tears stung at his thin eyelids, begging to be released. And Harry complied, throwing his frail body onto the frost covered ground, his wrinkled hands opening and closing for someone that wasn’t there. Louis. Harry needed Louis, and only Louis. But as it always was, life seemed to hold all the cards. Louis wasn’t alive in this world anymore, not after pancreatic cancer had violently stolen him away two months prior in November. But Harry still sometimes found a pair of bright cerulean eyes on the tiniest tabby kitten, or a wisp of feathered brown hair on a small toddler. When confronted with these, a somber grin would twist its way onto Harry’s face in remembrance of what had been. 

His tears having long ago run dry, Harry dolefully picked his fragile body off the ground, brushing off stray leaves and twigs. With a sad, reminiscent smile barely stretching his cheeks, Harry pressed one final kiss to the frigid stone, his dull eyes drinking in every aspect of the gravesite. Turning on his heel to leave, he offered four words to the wailing wind.

“Happy New Year, Louis.”

 

Seventy-five year old Harry and seventy-seven year old Louis lay side by side in the frozen ground, their identical headstones glistening with icy droplets of dew. The two blocks of pure, snow colored marble each bore a simple message, informing every passerby of who lay beneath the mounds of dirt and ice. It had been a single, agonizing year since Louis’ untimely death when Harry made his fatal decision. The everyday absence of Louis and his gentle eyes drove Harry up a steep cliff of longing and sorrow, eventually shoving the elderly man over the edge. Harry severed his ties to the world neatly, downing a mixture of sleeping pills and thick brandy while lying on the parched grass of the park next to Louis’ grave. With the faint, bitter taste of liquor on his tongue and his glassy eyes glued to the ivory headstone, Harry felt himself slowly drift away from the living like a fishing boat at sea. That was November. 

This New Year’s Eve, the two were reunited in their own infinite world, both once again wrapped up in a blanket of the others’ never-ending love. In this world, each boy was free of the pressing burdens that had previously weighted down their shoulders daily. Together, Harry and Louis had finally severed their ties to the world below, leaving only their old and decaying bones behind as memories of who they had been, and what they had done in their time on Earth.


End file.
